The King and the Lamp

by Duncan Williamson

  And he travelled on for many days, he viewed the land and saw the crops o’ corn. He saw the people, he walked among the people until he got hungry. He had no money, he had nothing, and he walked up to this particular farm, he asked for a job. And the man gave him a job to work at the harvest, he worked at the harvest and lo and behold he enjoyed it. He carted the corn in, he stooked the corn, he helped scythe the corn, he cut it, he dined with the old farmer and his wife and he had such a lovely time till the harvest was stacked and put in the sheds. Then they paid him a little wage and he said he must move on. And the king carried on from place to place, from day to day on his way working here, working there, digging ditches, building dykes, cutting trees, working among the people, and he enjoyed every moment! And he learned more than he had ever learned before in his life as a king, by walking and working among the poor people on the land – who his own kingdom depended upon!

  Now the young hunchback Robin is in the palace, and all these people came in and they told him things, they took men before courts; he’d done orders, he gave orders and people realised that this young man who had come over seemed to work things more wonderful than the king. The king is gone, the taxes were lowered, less grain was taken in, people were allowed to have more, people were allowed more freedom, and this became wonderful. Where is the king? The king is gone, but everybody would say, ‘We don’t worry if the king’s gone or no; this youngman who’s tooken over the kingdom, who the king has left in charge, is a more wonderful person than the king. He’s doin more wonderful things,’ and the effects began to creep into the people, in the village, in the town.

  And the same thing began to happen to the king: he walked among the people, he talked to the people, he sat with them, he slept with them, he ate with them, and the days began to pass … till at last the two hundred days were up. And the king felt sad and weary that he had to report once more back to the castle. He didn’t want to go! Now the hunchback in the palace had changed everything that the king stood for, and the people were so happy. When the king walked into the village on his way to the palace, he saw smiling faces, happy people in all the way. And he wondered about this because every time he went to the village and the town before, he never saw … people were always sad and wandered about with their heads drooped, nobody was smiling, nobody was happy, nobody was singing. The king passed fires, ken, people are singing, people are working, happy at their work! The king wondered, ‘What’s gaun on here? A wonderful change has come over the place.’ And then he thought, ‘It’s all because of that boy – all because of him! But when I go back, I’m gaunna make sure that he’s gaunna be paid well fir it.’ And the king was a different man, a changed man completely!

  He walked home to the palace, had a wonderful bath, had a wonderful wash, had a wonderful supper. And lo and behold, he couldn’t wait to call the young man before him, the young man was called before him and he said, ‘Luik, young man, I don’t know what you’ve done to me – you made me well, you made me happy – I’m happier than ever I was before in my life, since I lost my queen!’

  ‘Well,’ the young man said, ‘I’m happy too, because my mother is happy in the forest.’

  The king said, ‘Luik, I’m not fit to be a king; before, when I walkit across the land there were no smilin faces. You have taught me wonderful things, young man, an you’re a hunchback. You’re jist a common hunchback, and I’m a king. You have taught me more than I ever knew existed. Ma people are happy, I’m happy, I’ve never been happier before.’

  ‘Well’ the young man said, ‘I had come to cure your foot, because the only reason I wanted to cure yir foot – you cuid do somethin fir me.’

  And the king said, ‘Please, stay with me; please, stay with me! Be my prime minister, be anything, be anything you want! Be my second in command and run my country fir me, an be my friend!’

  And the youth turned round, he said, ‘Look, Father, you hev denied me wonst – and left me to perish in the forest.’

  The king said, ‘What?’

  He said, ‘Father, you have denied me wonst an left me to perish in the forest because I was a hunchback. But, a hunchback was no good to you as a son, why should a hunchback to you be good as a friend? I am your son, the person you abandont in the forest many years ago.’

  And the king went down on his knees, he cried and he threw his arms around the hunchback, he said, ‘Please, please, please, you’ve come back to me after all these years. An I’m sorry, please stay with me!’

  And the hunchback said, ‘No, Father. Now you’re happy and free. An so am I. If ye ever want to find me, you can find me with ma mother in the forest, the only person that ever was good an kind to me.’ And the hunchback walked away back to the forest to his old mother, and left the king to his own thoughts, his own ideas. And that is the last o’ my story.

  Boy and the Blacksmith

  This narrative is ‘a bloody guid yin’, says Big Willie, my close traveller friend from Perth. And when we all travelled with horses in the fifties Willie was famed for his skill as a smith. Sometimes the story is told as a dream, and sometimes the women’s heads are the only parts of their bodies twisted backside-foremost. But the following version is the one preferred by the travellers.

  MANY years ago there lived an auld blacksmith, and he had this wee smiddie by the side o’ this wee village. He wis gettin up in years; he wis a good blacksmith when he was young, but he wis getting up in years. But one thing this blacksmith had was an auld naggin woman who wadna give him peace, and the only consolation he cuid get was tae escape tae the comfort o’ the smiddie an enjoy hissel in peace an quietness. Even though she was a bad, narkin and aggravatin him, she always brung him in his cup o’ tea every day at the same time. But times wis very hard fir im an he was very idle, he hedna got much work to dae one day.

  ‘Ah but,’ he says, ‘well, ye never know who might come in – I’ll build up the fire.’

  So he bild up the fire, he blowed up the smiddie fire an he sat doon. Well, he sat by the fire fir a wee while, he’s gazin intae the fire when a knock cam tae the door. An the auld man got up.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘prob’ly this is somebody fir me; but whoever they are, they dinnae hae nae horses cause I never heard nae horses’ feet on the road.’

  But he opened the smiddie door an in cam this boy, this young man, the finest-luikin young man he’d ever saw in his life – fair hair, blue eyes – an he wis dressed in green. An he had a woman on his back.

  ‘Good mornin,’ said the blacksmith tae the young man.

  ‘Good mornin,’ he said.

  He said, ‘What can I do fir ye?’

  He said, ‘Are you the village blacksmith?’

  He said, ‘I am – well, what’s left o’ me.’

  ‘You wouldna mind,’ he said, ‘if you would let me hev a shot of yir smiddie fire fir a few minutes?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the man said, ‘I’m no wurk in very hard the day. If ye can – come in and help yirsel!’ The old man thought he wis gaunnae use the fire, mebbe fir a heat or something.

  So the young man cam in, an he took this bundle off his back, left it doon o’ the floor. An the old man luikit, he wis amazed what he saw: it was a young woman – but she was the most ugliest-luikin woman he hed ever seen in his life – her legs wis backside-foremost, an her head was backside-foremost, back tae front! And her eyes wis closed – wis as still-l-l as whit cuid be.

  Noo the young man turned roond tae the blacksmith an he said, ‘Luik, old man, you sit doon there and let me hev yir fire. An luik, pay no attention tae me – what I’m gaunna do – whatever ye see, don’t let it bother ye!’

  The auld blacksmith said, ‘Fair enough, son!’

  So the young man rakit up the fire an he catcht the young woman, he put her right on the top o’ the fire. And he covered her up wi the blazin coals. He went tae the bellows, an he blowed and he blowed an he blowed an he blowed an he blowed an he blowed! An he blowed her till he burnt her tae a cinder! Th
ere were nothing left, nothing but her bones. Then he gaithert all the bones and he put them the top o’ the anvil; he says tae the auld man, ‘You got a hammer on ye?’

  The old man went o’er an he gied him one o’ thon raisin hammers, two-sided hammer. An he tuik the bones, he tappit the bones inta dust – till he got a wee heap on the top of the anvil – every single bone, he tapped it in dust. An the auld man’s sittin watchin him! He wis mesmerised, he didna ken what wis gaun on.

  The young man never paid attention to the auld blacksmith, not one bit. Then, when he hed every single bone made intae dust, gathert all in a heap, he sput intae it, sput intae the dust. An he rumbled it wi his hands an he stude back fae it. Then the amazines thing ye ever seen happent … the dust begint tae swell an beginst tae rise – an it rose up on the top o’ the anvil – it tuik into this form. An it tuik into the form o’ the bonniest young wumman ye hed ever seen in yir life! The beautifules young wumman ye’d ever seen in yir life an she steppit aff the anvil. The young man smiled at her, she pit her airms roond the young man’s neck an she kissed him, she wis laughin and cheery. And the auld man never seen the likes o’ this afore in his life.

  The young man pit his hand in his pocket, tuik oot seven gold sovereigns an he says tae the auld man, ‘Here, you take that fir the shot o’ yir fire.’ And he tuik the young lassie’s airm. But before he walked oot the door he turnt tae the auld man, said, ‘Luik, remember something: never you do what ye see another person doin!’ And away he goes, closed the door.

  But the auld blacksmith, he sat an he sat, an he sat fir a lang while. He put the seven gold sovereigns in his pocket. Then he heard the door openin and in comes this aul cratur o’ a woman.

  ‘Are ye there, John?’ she said.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘Margaret, I’m here.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I brought ye a cup o’ tea. Hev you no got any wurk tae do instead o’ sittin there in yir chair? Are there nothing in the world you cuid find, cuid ye no get a job to do? You been sittin there noo fir the last two hours and ye’ve done nothing yet! How’re we gaunna live? How’re we gaunna survive? Here’s yir tea!’

  Auld John took the cup o’ tea up an he drunk hit. An he luiks at her, he thinks, ‘I’ve spent a long time wi her, an she’s jist about past hit. Wouldna I be better if I hed somebody young,’ he said, ‘tae have aroond the place instead o’ luikin at that auld wumman the rest o’ ma life?’ So he drinks the tea as fast as he cuid. He had made up his mind – an afore you could say ‘Jack Robinson’ – he snappit the auld woman!

  She says, ‘Let me go! What are ye doin, auld man?’

  He says, ‘Come here – I want ye!’ He catches her an he bundles her – intae the fire wi her. And he haps her up. She’s tryan tae get oot an he’s haudin her doon wi a piece o’ iron. He’s pumpin wi one hand an holdin her doon wi the other hand. An he pumpit an he pumpit, he blew an he pumpit an he blew. And her shrieks – you cuidha heard her oot o’ the smiddie – but fainter an fainter got her shrieks, ti he finally burned her tae an ash! There were nothing left o’ her. The last wee bit o’ clothes belangin tae her, he put them in wi the tongs on the top o’ the fire … He burned her tae an ash. He’s cleart back the ashes – an there wis the bones o’ her auld legs an her hands an her heid an her skull lyin there – the way he placed her in the fire. He says, ‘That’s better!’

  He gathert all the bones he cuid gather an he put them the top o’ the anvil, he choppit em, he rakit em up and he choppit em. And the wee bits that he cuid see that were hard, he choppit em again and rakit em, gathert them up in a nice wee heap. He got her a-all ground intae a fine dust! Fine powder. There’s a good heap on the top o’ the anvil.

  Then he stude back, says, ‘This is the part I like the best.’ So he sput in it an he rakit it wi his hands … Nothing happent. He sput again intae hit – nothing – he tried hit fir about five or six times, but nothing happent. So he sut an he scart’t his heid. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s it. I cannae dae—’ and then he remembered whit the wee laddie tellt him. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘she’s gone now.’ And he felt kin o’ sad, ye ken, she wis gone. ‘What am I gaunnae dae? I’m a murderer noo, whit am I gaunnae dae?’

  So he finally rakit all her bits o’ bones intae an auld tin aff the anvil. He dug a hole in among the coal dross, he pit the tin in an he covert hit up. He went inta the hoose, he collectit his wee bits o’ belongings that he cuid get – what he thought he wad need – his razor an his things that he needit an his spare claes. He packit a wee bag, locked the smiddie door, lockit the wee hoose an off he goes – never tae show his face back the1 smiddie again – in case somebody would find oot whit he’d done.

  So, he traivellt on an he traivellt on, here and there an he’s gettin wee bits o’ jobs here an wee bits o’ jobs there, but this wis always botherin his mind. He traivellt on an he traivellt on. Noo he’s been on the road fir about a year, but things begint tae get bad wi him. His claes begint tae get torn, his boots begint tae get worn, he cuidna get a penny nowhere. But he landed in this toon. An he’s walkin intae the toon, when he cam to an old man sittin on a summer seat wi a white beard. So he sat doon beside him, he asked the auld man fir a match tae light his pipe. (There were nothing in his pipe – just dross!) So he got tae crack wi the auld man.

  The man said, ‘Ye’ll be gan doon tae the village tae the gala, tae the fair!’

  He said, ‘Are there a fair on in the toon?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a fair here every year,’ he said, ‘a great fair gaun on in the toon. They’re comin from all over tae try their luck at the fair. What’s yir trade?’ the auld man said tae him.

  He said, ‘I’m a blacksmith.’

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘you shuid do well there. The’re plenty jobs fir blacksmiths, they’re needin plenty wurk. But, isn’t it sad – hit’ll no be the same fair as hit wis last year.’

  ‘How’s that?’ said the auld smith.

  ‘Well, ye ken, it’s the king’s daughter,’ he said. ‘The poor lassie she’s paralysed, an she’s the only daughter belonging tae the king. He adored her tae his heart, brother. She cannae walk – somethin cam ower her, she cannae walk an she’s in a terrible state – her puir legs is twisted, her head is turned backside-foremost. An the king would give anythin in the worl if somebody cuid dae something for her! But they sent fir quacks an doctors all over the worl, but naebody can dae nothing for her. But,’ he said, ‘seein yir a blacksmith, could ye help me?’ (He had this wee box of tools, ye see.) ‘I have a wee job fir ye.’

  The old smith says, ‘Right!’

  Go roond: an it wis a skillet the auld man had, he said, ‘Cuid ye mend that tae me?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said.

  Tuik him roond the hoose an he gi’n him somethin tae eat. The auld smith mended the skillet, and he gien him two shillins. This was the first two shillins he had fir a long long while. So the auld blacksmith made his wey doon tae the toon an the first place he cam tae wis a inn. He luikit, folk were gan oot an in an the fair wis goin – oh, it was a great gala day!

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I canna help it, fair here or fair there I mus go in here!’ So he went in. An drink i’ these days wis very very cheap, by the time he drunk his two shillins he wis well on! Then he cam oot an he walkit doon the street. Och, what a place he cam tae! But then he thocht tae his ainsel, ‘I’m silly, I’m moich –me, a learned blacksmith – I cuid be well aff!’ He says tae this man, ‘Whaur aboots is the king’s palace?’

  What’d the man say, ‘Up in the hill,’ he said, ‘that big place up in the hill – that’s the palace. Up that drive, follow the drive!’

  So wi the drink in his heid, he walked up tae the palace, an he wants tae see the king. The first he met wis a guard, king’s guards.

  The guard says, ‘Where are ye goin auld man?’

  He said, ‘I want to see the king.’

  An the guard said, ‘What di ye want tae see the king fir?’

  ‘I come,’ he said, ‘
tae cure the king’s daughter.’

  ‘O-oh,’ the guard said, ‘jist a minute! If you come tae cure the king’s daughter … where dae ye come fae? Are ye a doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m not a doctor,’ he said, ‘I’m a blacksmith, an I come tae cure the king’s daughter.’ Immediately he wis rushed intae the king’s parlour an pit before the king and the queen. The auld blacksmith went down on the floor o’ his knees an he tellt the king, ‘I can cure yir daughter, Ir Majesty.’

  ‘Well,’ the king said, ‘if you can cure my daughter, I’ll make ye the richest man … ye a blacksmith?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I’m a blacksmith.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll give ye a blacksmith’s shop an everything ye require, and all the trade! I’ll see that nobody else goes nowhere, excepts they comes to you – if you’d cure my lassie. Make her well is all I require! But,’ he said, ‘God help ye if anything waurse happens tae her!’

  The auld smith said, ‘Have you got a blacksmith shop?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘they’ve got a blacksmith shop here; in fact, we’ve one fir wir own palace wurk an ye’ll not be disturbed.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘hev ye plenty smiddie coal?’

  ‘Come,’ the king said, ‘I’ll show ye myself, I’ll take ye myself tae the smiddie.’ He went down, an all the smiths were at work in the palace smiddie. He said, ‘Out, out, out, everyone out!’ He locked the back door. He says, ‘There – anvil, fire, everything tae yir heart’s content.’

  The auld smith kinneled up the fire, pumped it up – blowed it till it wis goin! He says tae the king, ‘Bring yir daughter doon here an I don’t want disturbed! I don’t want disturbed.’